


All Along the Back Roads

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Misunderstanding, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy birthday <a href="http://svana-vrika.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://svana-vrika.dreamwidth.org/"><b>svana_vrika</b></a>!  Here's my crummy offering as a gift, I hope it pleases *massive hugs*</p>
    </blockquote>





	All Along the Back Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday [](http://svana-vrika.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**svana_vrika**](http://svana-vrika.dreamwidth.org/)! Here's my crummy offering as a gift, I hope it pleases *massive hugs*

A cold night in spring, at dusk on an Ohio back road, a man and an angel drink beer on the hood of a vintage Impala and listen to AC/DC.

It sounds like the beginning of a really bad joke. It's definitely the beginning of something.

Dean Winchester – hunter, big brother, and serial good guy, though his police record says otherwise – is tired and sore, six hours off of an encounter with a real bitch of a poltergeist; but he's ignoring the twinge in his lower back and the throb in the back of his skull, dulling them both with slightly warm, yeasty beer and the last of the French fries from his dinner, picked up at a roadside grill. They're salty enough for use in an exorcism and burn the gash on the inside of Dean's lower lip.

Castiel – sometime angel of the lord, soldier or holy pilgrim, depending on the day of the week – has his beer bottle by the neck between two careful fingers, and he's twirling, twirling, twirling it on the leg of his slightly threadbare pants, leaving a ring of moisture like a landing pad, so he knows where to put the bottle after each time he brings it to his mouth.

Dean is thinking of kissing that mouth, which isn't as unusual a thought as he'd like to pretend – he can't use being hit on the head as an excuse, anyway. Maybe it's because he's not living out of Sam's pocket anymore, but he feels more daring, less like every decision he makes is set it end in disaster.

“Why a kiss?” Castiel says, making Dean start so violently that he almost falls off the hood of the car. “I’m not sure I entirely understand the meaning behind the gesture in this context.”

“Can you read my mind or something?” Dean asks, not really sure if he wants to know the answer, and a little too slow on the uptake to realize that “Kissing Dynamite” is playing on the stereo. The only thing he comes away feeling weird about is the fact that he doesn’t feel weird about it.

There’s this thing Castiel does where he doesn’t exactly smile, but he manages to look like he understands whatever joke the universe is playing on him. “You are not an open book, Dean. Neither are you a foreign language.”

That’s not exactly a yes or a no, so Dean goes back to drinking his beer, determined to deny predictability. Castiel makes a soft noise of frustration, leans over and kisses him.

“That doesn’t give you permission to be obtuse.”

Dean’s about to start arguing, or maybe make a comment about how Castiel should spend less time reading a thesaurus; but really, Castiel tastes good – beer warm and weirdly familiar – and Dean’s not about to give that up. Castiel obliterates the concept of personal space, cages Dean in with inhumanly powerful arms and warm thighs, up against the cold windshield and kisses him until it’s hard to breathe, until Dean’s fingers hurt where they’re tangled in the folds of the trench coat.

“I trust you understand the meaning of the gesture in this context.”

Dean rubs his cheek against Castiel’s jaw. Their stubble catches roughly, burning a little, and his toes curl inside his boots. “Yeah, I think I got it.” He puts both hands on Castiel’s face and draws him in tight, bites at his lower lip while their breath spirals in silver clouds between them. The trench coat falls around them, traps the heat in; and Castiel gives off a lot of heat, like sitting to close to the embers of a campfire – warm, but just slightly dangerous and enough to make Dean’s skin pull tight. Castiel gets his fingers underneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans, up against skin, and Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat that he’ll never admit to later, rushes to pull Castiel’s shirttails out of his pants.

“The button, Cas – seriously.”

That’s all the instruction he needs, apparently, and Dean is ridiculously thankful he ran out of clean underwear even as he pulls a hard breath in between his teeth because _damn_ his fingers are cold, then warm, then perfectly, burning hot on the skin of Dean’s cock.

“Now I get why you weren’t into Chastity,” he mouths Castiel’s jaw, licks up behind his ear. Castiel tastes like the cold wind. “You _wanted_ to order off the menu.”

He breaks the button on the front of Castiel’s pants – the thing is hanging by a thread anyhow – pulls the zipper down and gets his hand inside ridiculous pinstripe boxers and around Castiel’s cock. Castiel whispers a long _yes_. His mouth is sloppy-hot, his cock is wet at the tip and a cool, dry rasp of his palm feels so good that Dean shakes with it, delirious, not caged anymore, but cradled, whispering “Yeah, Cas – yeah – goddamn.”

Dean is sweating underneath his clothes, and Castiel’s cheeks are wet, almost steaming in the cold air. He breathes hard against the side of Dean’s neck and puts almost too much strength into what he’s doing, but it’s good – the little edge of almost-pain, softened by the way Castiel’s mouth hangs open against Dean’s skin, leaving warm, wet patches. Castiel has this fine, persistent tremor running under his skin, like a low-grade earthquake, and absolutely zero objections when Dean sucks just a little too hard at the skin along the edge of his jaw, leaving a mark that’s already fading as his control starts to unravel and he presses his nose into the line of Castiel’s collar, where he smells like a weird combination of pine needles and burnt ozone.

When Castiel comes, he breathes out “Dean,” like it’s everything, the whole of God’s creation in four imperfect letters, strung together to form an imperfect being. He puts his forehead against Dean’s cheek, tastes the line of his neck with a flick of his tongue and sighs, all soft and content.

“I think we should find a motel.” Dean knows what he’s suggesting, and it sounds to his own ears like the best plan he’s ever come up with.

“The nearest one is forty-three minutes from here,” Castiel says, “if you drive the speed limit.”

“When do I drive the speed limit?” Dean laughs, hands sliding down Castiel’s back, keeping him close – and not just for the heat. “You gonna ride with me?”

“Always.”

-End-


End file.
